


Peel

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Series: Little Moments [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A bit poetic, Apples, Domestic life in 221B, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Hidden Talents, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, a tiny bit sexy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 21:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3224048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many things Sherlock admires about John Watson. A heated kiss uncovers several more of John's hidden talents.<br/>(Or in the lovely words borrowed from reader <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringD">DaringD</a>, "Peeling an apple... peeling Sherlock.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peel

At some point Sherlock had started keeping a mental tally of John’s small talents -- nothing grand or life-saving, just the odd little tricks and quirks a person picks up over a lifetime.

He loved, for instance, to watch John peel an apple. John would take out the pocket knife he’d been given as a boy, a gift from his father whom he never spoke about. He would carefully open the blade, hold the apple in his right hand, and begin with a knick at the top, slowly turning the apple around and around, the thin strip of peel gradually forming into a long spiral as he worked, his face a study in concentration.

The spiral would eventually reach the tabletop, pooling onto the wood, until he reached the end and cut the peel away, letting the perfect coil fall in a translucent, springy heap. He then sliced the apple into quarters, pared out the core and seeds, then sliced the pieces again into eighths. He usually handed Sherlock four of the pale crescents, crisp and sweet.

He also liked it when John played solitaire. Sometimes, when neither of them could sleep, Sherlock would watch John from the sofa where he pretended to be reading. John would sit at the kitchen table with a worn deck of cards and shuffle them three times flat against the worktop, then cup them in his palms, applying a mysterious force to make them lift and curve in his hands with a satisfying whirring noise. Then the slap, slap, slap of laying out the cards, sorting, placing, shuffling again, three times, _whirrrr_.

The way John held a pen fascinated Sherlock. He loved to watch John write, his left hand curling over the paper at an angle that looked almost painful. Sometimes he would stop writing, lost in thought, and absently twirl the pen in one hand, flipping it magically around his thumb, a trick he said he'd learned from a boy in geometry class at school.

Also on the list: he had a fair knowledge of carpentry gained from summer jobs, knew how to curse in seven languages, could roll cigarettes but rarely smoked, and kissed using his whole body.

This latter fact was revealed to Sherlock in a dark side street after a week of building tension that had started with a difficult case and ended with a close brush with a bullet. After the police had left the scene, John swore at him, pushed him against a gritty brick wall, berating him in full officer mode, bumping chests, angry at him for taking a stupid risk and nearly getting killed again. John’s anger turned to silence, their faces close, adrenaline running hot.

John gripped the collar of Sherlock’s coat as he shoved him against the wall a second time, then pushed up and into him, their mouths meeting, John transferring his rage and relief into a searing kiss that made Sherlock’s heart race and knees go weak. He'd always thought that was just an over-romanticized expression, but his legs nearly buckled when John’s hands curved around the nape of his neck, his thighs pinning Sherlock hard against the wall, his body undulating into him in a way that suggested John Watson had many, many more talents.

They went home, still shaky from the near miss, climbed the narrow stairs to John’s bedroom, desire unfurling through their hands and mouths, and proceeded to slowly dismantle each other, layer by complicated layer. Sherlock stretched like a cat under John’s touch, exposing his long pale neck, the perfect canvas for a purple bite.

John’s shoulders were broader than Sherlock had imagined, his legs muscular with fine dark hair. Sherlock’s fingers dug into his back, then roved to feel the curved wings of his shoulder blades and knobs of his spine, the dip of his lower back as John sank against him, pressing him down into the yielding mattress.

They tasted, bit, licked, sucked, feasting on each other, letting pleasure uncoil in a long continuous string like the peeling of a ruby red apple.

**Author's Note:**

> Do you ever get an image stuck in your head that you have to write about? That's what prompted this ficlet -- Sherlock watching John peel an apple and being completely entranced. And then all the metaphors of removing layers that go with it...


End file.
